


Ethereal Matchmaking Company: Device and Co.

by eating_custardinbed



Series: The Ineffable Husbands deal with angsty shit [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adorable, Bad Matchmaking, Cute, F/M, Fluff and Angst, I'm sorry I wrote this lol, Injured Aziraphale, M/M, Matchmaking, Protective Crowley, only a little bit of angst tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-04-23 12:30:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19151068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eating_custardinbed/pseuds/eating_custardinbed
Summary: AKA "Three times that everyone thought Crowley and Aziraphale were a couple, and one time they were right"In which Anathema makes some assumptions, Sergeant Shadwell is just... Sergeant Shadwell, and Crowley yells a lot (mostly at houseplants and sometimes at actual people)





	1. Anathema Devises a Plan and Crowley Rants to Some Houseplants

**Author's Note:**

> No, I don't know what this is either. It's just sort of here now. Well, um, enjoy, I suppose! 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Good Omens. I am currently going off of the show alone, but it won't be long now until I get the book so, um, yeah. I don't earn anything off of this, it's just my brain farts on a screen, really.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Read the title XD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically, I've kinda rewritten the scene from Ep 2 to start with. I promise that this is going somewhere. This is based off the show alone as I haven't got the book yet. Please enjoy!

**_Thursday: 2 days until the end of the world_ **

Despite the fact that Armageddon was less than forty-eight hours hours away, Anathema Device was feeling unusually cheerful as she rode along the narrow, dark country lanes of Tadfield village on her antique bicycle. Tucked in her wicker basket was her observation equipment and the 360-year-old book _‘The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter’_ , which was quite possibly one of, if not the most sought after books on the planet. Even though she had found nothing that brought her any closer to identifying who or indeed what the Antichrist was so far, she was still feeling good.

At least, she had been feeling good up until the point when she suddenly found herself thrown from her bicycle by a vintage Bentley that had very much appeared out of nowhere. Anathema barely had a chance to scream before she landed in a ditch, hit her head on a rather large rock and lost consciousness almost immediately.

Inside the car, which had come to a very sharp stop, an angel and a demon were staring out of the windscreen in shock.

“You… hit someone,” the angel- Aziraphale, Principality, Guard of the East Gate and perpetual good guy- stammered.

“I didn’t,” the demon- Crowley, the Serpent, profession tempter and really the opposite of everything that Aziraphale stands for- said, his voice just the tiniest bit defensive. “Someone hit me.”

Normally, Aziraphale would have had a quiet moment to himself before giving Crowley a look of fond exasperation, but he had had a _very_ trying day and so his annoyance could not be contained. He shot the demon an out-of-the-ordinary glare before getting out of the car and scuttling to the edge of the road. The angel squinted in the darkness, but he couldn’t make much out: his corporeal eyes weren’t suited to the low light.

“Let there be light!” he cried as he snapped his fingers. Instantly, a blinding white light (some may have called in almost… heavenly, perhaps) illuminated the area, and Aziraphale could see a woman, a bicycle and a book on the cold, muddy floor. As if on cue, the woman rolled over and her eyelids flickered. She squinted as she did so.

“How,” she murmured, putting her hand to her eyes, “the hell did you do that?”

The angel heard a huff behind him and looked quickly back. It was Crowley. He had got out of the Bentley and had come to stand by Aziraphale. He looked first down at the girl on the floor, then at the angel and then up at the light. Sighing, he raised his hand and snapped his own fingers: the light disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared.

Aziraphale, pulling his coat closer around himself as protection against the biting night air, hurried towards the girl (although they should really call her a woman, he thought) and squatted down beside her. She was making strange noises as he helped her up, and she put her hand to her forehead.

“I think I hit my head,” she said. Her voice was faltering and almost clunky.

“That’s it,” Aziraphale said soothingly as he made a very theatrical show of fussing over her, discreetly waving his hands over her injuries. “No bones broken.”

Anathema groaned softly. As this whole business was cracking off, Crowley was walking around his car, doing everything short of downright screaming at it to try and convey his anger to the machine about the fact that it had dared to get _damaged_! With a wave or two of the demon’s hands, the front light was fixed and the dent in the metal of the bonnet was miraculously gone. Aziraphale was helping Anathema, who was still a little unsteady on her feet, to stand upright and walk towards the Bentley.

“My bike,” she mumbled.

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaimed, letting her go before running over to the bike, fixing the broken (and maybe upgrading the not-so-broken) parts as he did. “Amazingly resilient, these old machines,” he said as he wheeled it onto the road. “Where do you need to get to?”

Before Anathema, who was replacing her thick-framed glasses, had a chance to answer, Crowley cut in.

“No, no, we’re not giving her a lift,” he said. He was leaning against the now-open car door as if he had somewhere very important to be, and he was giving Anathema the stink-eye. “Out of the question. There’s nowhere to put the bike!”

“Except for the bike rack,” Aziraphale shot back. If Crowley hadn’t been Fallen, he would have looked upwards towards the Almighty for strength, but since he was still holding onto a 6000-year-old grudge, he settled for glaring fiercely at the hunk of metal that had just appeared on the back of his car. “Do get in, my dear,” Aziraphale said brightly.

Now, ordinarily, Anathema Device adored spookiness. She loved spookiness, reveled in it, in fact, but this? This was too much spookiness for her. She didn’t trust these two one bit, but there was nothing in any of Agnes’ prophecies telling her to beware of them, she was cold, aching and tired, and they were currently her only ride back home. Carefully, cautiously, she came forward. Aziraphale smiled broadly.

“So,” Crowley said as he held the door open for her. Anathema hadn’t known that someone could hurl so much sarcasm and contempt into one syllable. She must have disturbed some long romantic drive, she thought: no wonder Sunglasses had been so keen to get rid of her. “Where are we taking you?”

“Back to the village,” she said, forcing her voice to be as assertive as she could get it to be. “I’ll give you directions.”

The moment she was in the car, the demon slammed the door on her. Watching out of the window, she saw the tall red-haired man shoot the bow-tied man a silly, if not a little scathing, look. She also saw how the bow-tied man’s face broke out into a radiant smile the moment the other’s back was turned. It was vaguely adorable, she thought.

And that’s how Anathema Device ended up in a Bentley in Tadfield with, although she didn’t know it yet*, an angel and a demon.

*She just thought she’d been picked up by a lovely couple who’d been distracted, probably by each other, enough to hit her.

 _‘Bicycle Race’_ by Queen was blaring from the car’s ancient speaker system. Crowley, who was driving at what he considered to be the extremely low speed of 70 miles per hour, was humming absent-mindedly along. Aziraphale was looking as if he was doing his very best, for Anathema’s sake, not to squeal and hang onto any surface he could find as tightly as he could. Anathema glanced back at her bike, and then did a double-take. She took off her glasses as if that would help her.

“Listen, my bike, it didn’t have gears before,” she said, leaning forward. She noticed Aziraphale freeze. “I know my bike didn’t have gears. Make a left.”

“Oh, Lord, heal this bike?” Crowley said to the angel mockingly. Well, half-mockingly. His voice was so low that only Aziraphale could hear him. The angel blushed.

“I got carried away,” he replied. He had that sheepish look on his face. His voice was equally as quiet.

To Anathema, who could hear none of this, it seemed like the pair were sharing a private joke, too absorbed in one another to even remember she was there, save for when she was giving directions. Speaking of which, they were nearing the cottage.

“Oh, you can drop me off here,” she announced. Crowley, sighing again, pulled the car up and waited expectantly for her to get out, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. Aziraphale, of course, jumped out and insisted on getting her bike for her, leaning it against the whitewashed fence. He was grinning like a madman.

“Oh, look!” he said in what was very clearly mock-surprise, gesturing to the bike. “No gears. Just a perfectly normal velocipede.”

“Bicycle,” Crowley corrected from behind them. They both turned to see him hanging out of the car door, gazing impatiently at Aziraphale. “Can we get on?”

Oops, Anathema thought. She must have interrupted a big night, perhaps an anniversary or a particular milestone. Why else, she wondered, would a man who gave seemingly zero fucks about anything sound like he was begging now? She looked back over to the mild-mannered bow-tied man, who was still beaming a bit like a deranged serial killer. She looked quickly back down again.

“Get in, angel,” the other said with a certain finality to his words that suggested there was to be no more discussion on the matter. It was the use of the clearly affectionate pet name “angel” that made Anathema, her head swirling with thoughts of guilt and love, hurry along the garden path, allowing Aziraphale to get back into the car, for Crowley to start it up and for them to shoot off down the lane.

For the first time in 350 years, _‘The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter’_ lay forgotten in the footwell.

**_Saturday: 2 months since the start of the rest of their lives_ **

Tadfield, Aziraphale had to admit, was rather lovely when it was basking in the balmy October sunshine. All the way down the road which Aziraphale was strolling down, the leaves on the trees were brilliant oranges and browns and reds, accentuated by the sunlight hitting them at just the right angle. Some leaves crunched beneath his feet, whilst others were only just leisurely making their way down to the ground. The angel smiled contentedly as someone, a well-meaning dog walker, called out “Good afternoon!” to him. 

There was nothing around to tell you, but this was no ordinary Saturday. Oh, no. This Saturday marked exactly two months since the Nearly-But-Not-Quite-Apocalypse (as Crowley had dubbed it). 

In those two months, Aziraphale had fallen into a rather comfortable routine. During the day, he would run his newly restored bookshop and chase away any customers he felt were not ready for the type of precious books he stocked. At exactly 5:30 p.m, he would shut his shop ready for Crowley to pick him up at 6:00 p.m. Or 6:30 p.m. Or 5:50 p.m. The demon had never been very good with punctuality. Really, Aziraphale got picked up whenever Crowley felt like it. Then they would spend the night out at dinner, or walking in St James’ Park, or drinking fine wine in Aziraphale’s back room until they were both snorting with laughter over something that neither of them could really quite remember. Whatever they did, they spent the night in each other’s company. And then, midnight would come and Crowley would yawn, stretch out and say those dreaded words: 

“Well, I think I better be getting on.” 

Then they would both sober up, Crowley would say his goodbyes and leave, and Aziraphale would try to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

Every weekend, therefore, at least one day- usually a Sunday: Tadfield Church just looked so  _ lovely  _ when it was full, Aziraphale always thought- of it was spent visiting the Antichrist. Crowley claimed that he was just being a worrywarts* and refused to come, but the angel felt a certain obligation to check up on the young boy, to make sure that his powers weren’t resurfacing with such ferocity as they had done before. Inevitably, he normally ended up at Jasmine Cottage having tea with Anathema and Newt. He still felt unbelievably awful about having hit the occultist with the Bentley, despite the fact that he had not actually been behind the wheel** at the time of the accident. And Newt, Newt was a delightful boy: still a little unsure of himself, but Aziraphale could see that he was going to be a fabulous husband and father when the time came. 

*Well, not the Crowley ever had, or ever would use the word worrywarts: he used much cruder words that amounted to that description.  
**In fact, Aziraphale had never been behind the wheel of the Bentley. Nor had anyone else, for that matter. Crowley did not trust anyone but himself with his precious car.

On this particular weekend, however, Crowley had promised that he had something very special in store and so Aziraphale had grudgingly agreed to visit Tadfield on a Saturday instead. He’d already seen Adam (the boy was doing fine as always, as was Dog) and he had passed the church, pushing away the disappointment and a tinge of sadness at how empty it looked and felt. He looked towards Jasmine Cottage. Anathema was already at the gate, waiting for him. The angel smiled broadly and hurried over her, letting her usher him inside. 

“Anathema, my dear, it is  _ so  _ good to see you!” he said, kissing her on the cheek. Unlike most people, he meant these words as he spoke them. Anathema gave him a warm smile, leading him into the living room where Newt was sitting. The Witchfinder Private gave him a small, awkward wave. 

“Aziraphale, we weren’t expecting you until tomorrow,” Anathema said as she got the tea things, placing them on the small table in front of the sofa. Aziraphale reached over and poured himself a cup: he knew the protocols for polite tea in this house now. 

“Oh, yes, well, er,” he stuttered, taking a sip of tea. It was scalding hot. He hated his nervous stutter, and he looked quickly down. “Crowley said he had something planned, and, um, I did promise, oh, I hope I haven’t caused you an inconvenience, I’m terribly sorry, I truly am, oh, erm, I-” 

“Aziraphale, it’s fine,” Anathema cut in. She was smiling a little, but there was concern in her eyes. Her voice was gentle. “You’re not an inconvenience: Newt and I love having you here. Don’t we, Newt?”

Newt, who clearly hadn’t been expecting to be brought into the conversation, jumped rather violently and in the process nearly spilled his tea everywhere. Aziraphale gave him an anxious look, and Anathema shot him a glare. Newt cleared his throat, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. 

“Yeah, we love having you here,” he said somewhat unconvincingly despite the fact that he actually meant it. “Can’t get… enough of you, actually.” 

Aziraphale’s expression had lightened a little, but the worry lines were still there. 

“Oh, well, if you’re sure…” he replied tentatively. To avoid having to talk at length, he took to gulping at his tea. 

“Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask!” Anathema suddenly exclaimed, slapping the arm of the sofa. “How long have you and Crowley been together?” 

The angel made a small, pleased noise, grinning as he wrapped his hands around the comforting warmth of the teacup. 

“Well, I believe that it’s six thousand and twenty-three years that Crowley and I have known each other now,” he answered. Anathema let out a low whistle. 

“Wow, that’s a long time,” she said. “But I didn’t mean that, Aziraphale. I meant  _ together  _ together.” 

Unfortunately, as she said this, Aziraphale had just taken a very large gulp of tea, so when he gasped when he realised what Anathema was implying, he began to choke rather spectacularly. 

Now, Aziraphale took extremely good care of anything he owned. Whether it be antique books, a nineteenth century coat or a* body, Aziraphale could keep things in the exact same pristine condition for thousands of years. Really, it was Sergeant Shadwell’s fault that his old body had been discorporated, although Aziraphale hated to point fingers. Because of this, Aziraphale had never experienced any form of physical distress** and was so thoroughly unprepared for this situation. He placed his teacup hastily down and seized a napkin, pressing it to his face and coughing out a short, raspy breath. His eyes were wide with panic.

*recently unfortunately discorporated   
**Technically, this was a lie. There had been that spear through the shoulder in 1456 that Gabriel refused to let him miracle away to “teach him a lesson”, but that had only been a month and a half of agony so it didn’t really count in Aziraphale’s mind.

“We need to do something!” Newt yelled, jumping to his feet for no particular reason. Anathema placed a hand on his shoulder and pulled him back down. 

“He’ll be fine, he just needs to figure out what’s going on,” she murmured. 

“But he’s  _ choking _ !” the witchfinder replied desperately. 

“If he starts turning blue, we can interfere.” 

Newt pursed his lips, wringing his hands as he did so. Aziraphale’s face was still buried in the napkin, and he was emitting small strangled noises. Anathema continued to hide her amused grin and Newt generally flapped around a bit until Aziraphale emerged from the napkin, his face very red: even the tops of his ears were burning from embarrassment. 

“Terribly sorry, my dear,” he murmured, his tone subdued. “But Crowley and I are not a couple, if that is what you were implying.” 

Anathema gave Newt a surprised, confused and determined look. Surprised because she would have thought that over six thousand years would be enough time to get over the awkward flirting stage. Confused because she couldn’t understand why Aziraphale didn’t just take the plunge: his subdued tone showed how much he wanted it, and it wasn’t like Crowley tried to hide his attraction from what she’d seen. Determined because she was sure that she and Newt were going to get the two dunderheads together. 

There were just  two problems with this plan: one, she had no idea how much homophobia they’d internalised over the years* and two, she had not the foggiest clue or tiniest inkling of how they were going to do it.  

*This later transpired to be none.

Newt nodded back. 

The Ethereal Matchmaking Company were up for business. 

**_Crowley’s apartment, London_ **

“Is that a wilting leaf I see there?” 

Crowley’s voice was low and dangerous as he held an azalea leaf between his index finger and his thumb. The plants around him knew that tone: they began to tremble, their leaves quaking like house foundations in a tornado. The demon glared at the greenery in the room, his eyes flashing dangerously. “I told you, after the apocalypse, I wanted no more of this stupid behaviour!” 

His voice had reached a crescendo, as had the plants’ shaking. Crowley huffed, plucking the leaf from the stem and crushing it in his fist. 

“It’s bad enough having to act  _ normal  _ around Aziraphale without having to scold you lot as well,” he said miserably, walking round and spraying the plants with water. “I mean, really!” 

He glared at a rose bush as he passed it, and it seemed to stand up even straighter than before. “You just don’t get it, do you? I can barely look at him without wanting to rip my heart out of my chest and present it to him on a silver platter, but I have to act like everything’s just tickety-boo!” 

He let out a manic laugh, and every plant in the room froze. “It’s not the same, and it never  _ will  _ be the same. Aziraphale, he’s just…” 

Crowley sighed, lowering the plant mister. Every plant in the room seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. “It’ll never happen.” 

With that, he took up the mister and began to spray viciously again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale strikes me as being very anxious, which could be a very interesting angle to pursue which I am not pursuing in this fic, but may pursue in a different fic. Please remember to leave comments and kudos xx


	2. I Can Be A Fighter (if you want)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Matchmaking Company form a plan, and Crowley has a surprise for Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is a reference to a song called 'Fighter' by Loving Caliber, which is basically just Az and Crowley's relationship in a nutshell. I want to thank my good friend @hannycraft09 (FF.net username, go add her up on there) for introducing me to this song and subsequently getting it stuck in my head for the past three days. Obviously I own nothing. 
> 
> Thank you for 1400+ hits!! I appreciate it so much xxxxx

**_Jasmine Cottage, Tadfield, Sunday: 2 months and 1 day since the start of the rest of their lives_ **

“We have to do something.”

Anathema could be very stubborn when she wanted to. She had been the same since she was two years old and was determined not to eat any sort of green thing, healthy or unhealthy*. Now, however, all of her energy was focused on the happiness of two celestial beings who couldn’t seem to grasp the basics of simple romance.

*This resolve had lasted all of two weeks, which is a very long time for a toddler.

Right now, she was standing in the living room in front of Newt, Sergeant Shadwell, Madame Tracy and the Them. Everyone except Newt was staring at her confusedly.

“Pardon me for asking, Miss Device, but what exactly are you talking about?” Wensleydale asked politely from his position standing by the side of the sofa. Everyone else nodded in agreement. “It’s just, you’ve called us all here but we’re not entirely sure why.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, blushing a little. “Well, it’s to do with Aziraphale and Crowley.”

“I like Aziraphale,” Brian piped up. Everyone turned to him, a little incredulous. “What? He always buys us ice cream when he sees us.”

“Well, I prefer Crowley,” Pepper said. “He told me he’d get my mother to buy me a _proper_ bike for Christmas.”

“I-”

“It’s the fact that they’re not together,” Anathema said quickly before a whole argument could begin. A silence settled over the room. Everyone stared at her. She shifted, looking down at the floor. “It’s true. Aziraphale told me yesterday.”

It was Madame Tracy who broke the silence when she began to laugh. It was a long, high laugh and she slapped her hand on her knee, gasping for breath.

“Oh, this is a very good joke!” she said. When Anathema gave her a strange, perturbed look, her laughter quieted. “You’re… serious?”

“Yup,” she replied. “Deadly.”

“Well, that’s just silly,” Tracy said. “He’s been in my head, I know what that angel is like. He’s-”

“Madly in love with Crowley but won’t admit it?” Anathema cut in.

“Precisely.”

Anathema sighed, sitting down on the sofa and putting her head in her hands. Newt sat cautiously next to her, tentatively putting his arm around her shoulders.

“There there,” he murmured.

“What are we supposed to do?” she exclaimed, looking up. “Not even six thousand years is enough.”

Sergeant Shadwell had, up until this point, been sitting quietly. All of a sudden, he made a triumphant noise and thrust his hand in the air.

“We could kill the Southern pansy,” he announced proudly.

“Actually, we couldn’t, because that’s illegal,” Wensleydale said, ever the sensible one in the group.

“He’s ethereal,” Adam cut in. “He can’t die. His body just gets destroyed, and then he could get a new one.”

Anathema, much to her own surprise, found herself seriously considering this.

“Adam, could you bring him back?” she asked the eleven-year-old Antichrist. “Y’know, like you did last time.”

Adam shrugged.

“Probably,” he replied. “As long as he inhabits another body again.”

Anathema nodded slowly.

“It would definitely incite some emotions in Crowley,” she said. She turned sharply to Madame Tracy. “Did he mention anything to you when he was in your head?”

“Come to think of it, Aziraphale did mention something about Crowley being very upset in a bar,” Tracy said. “I think he thought he was dead then.”

“Then maybe-”

“No!"

This was voiced by Newt. He had jumped up so quickly that his glasses had almost fallen off of his face, and he was standing in the middle of the carpet, clenching his fists and looking angrily around the room. “We are _not_ killing anybody, ethereal or otherwise!”

Shadwell’s shoulders sagged in defeat.

Anathema sighed. She supposed he was right, but she wasn’t happy about it.

“Couldn’t we just… injure him a little bit?” she asked weakly. Newt gave her a look. “How else will Crowley react!?”

Newt pressed his lips together, looking over to the side as he considered this. On the one hand, it was going to be rather a chip off the old heavenly block, injuring an angel. How did they know the wrath of God wasn’t going to descend upon them?* But then again, violence seemed to be one of the only languages that Crowley understood**. It couldn’t hurt, could it? He exhaled heavily, turning back to her.

*It wasn’t. God was, in fact, watching all of this with an endless supply of metaphysical popcorn, and had been ever since that very first day in Eden. There had been many times in the past six millennia where She had thrown said popcorn at the screen and screamed at them to _“Just get on with it already!”_ , so in fact She was quite glad that somebody was taking it upon themselves to speed it up a bit.  
**That, and petty deeds of mischief.

“Fine,” he said. Anathema’s face lit up far too quickly not to be disturbing. “But only a little. No injuries more severe than a concussion, and maybe a broken nose at a stretch. And we all have to be there to see it done, but we get someone else to actually do the… well, you know.”

Anathema held out her hand.

“Deal.”

 

**_Soho, London_ **

It was 3 p.m, and Aziraphale was feeling distinctly uneasy.

Not because Crowley was late to pick him up, of course. He had wholeheartedly expected that. It was more the fact that this was very mysterious, what Crowley was doing. Usually, he would call the angel a few days before their planned big events, just to check that he was still available and that the angel was okay with what they were doing*. So far, Aziraphale had not received such a call. Crowley had left him at midnight with the words “Pick up some decent wine!” and Aziraphale had gone to bed miserable.

*This came about after a disastrous dinner at the top of the Eiffel Tower in 1887 when Crowley discovered that Aziraphale was severely acrophobic after the angel practically had a panic attack after looking over the balcony.

He’d been on page 187 of _Pride and Prejudice_ for almost half an hour now. He wasn’t so much reading as staring blankly at the page as anxious thoughts swirled around his mind. What if Crowley wasn’t coming? What if he’d forgotten that they were supposed to be meeting? Worse still, what if Hell had gotten a hold of him? After all, it had been two months now since the Armageddon-That-Wasn’t, and the trick with the Holy Water wasn’t going to hold them off forever. If the other demons had got him, Crowley was in serious trouble, especially if it was Hastur. Oh God, what if Hastur had caught Crowley off-guard at his apartment and decided to let the punishment fit the crime? What if Crowley was nothing more than a puddle of goo on his stone floor? Oh God, no, he mustn’t even think about that possibility, only that was all that he could think about now.

“Angel, you alright?”

The sound of Crowley’s voice made him jump, and he looked up hurriedly. The demon was standing by the door, although he looked rather blurry in Aziraphale’s teary eyes. From what the angel could make out, he looked worried.

“Oh, yes, um, I’m fine,” he said, wincing inwardly as his voice cracked.

“It’s just it kind of seems like you’re having one of your panic… thingies.”

“Was I?” Aziraphale stammered. Come to think of it, his chest did seem rather tight. “Oh, I, um, I didn’t realise.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, pushing himself off of the doorframe. “I’ve been here for a good five minutes, I’ve called your name about seventeen times and it was like I was invisible or something.”

“Well, why didn’t you intervene?” the angel asked as his cheeks flamed. Whilst yes, he had had panic attacks in front of Crowley before*, he still found it incredibly embarrassing. Now he was thinking about it, he could really feel the shakiness in his breath.

*The Eiffel Tower incident notwithstanding, Aziraphale had had one other panic attack in Crowley’s presence. It had been in 1639, after a surprise memo from Upstairs saying that they would soon be trawling through the Earth Archives as a spot-check, and Aziraphale had been convinced that they were going to find out about the Agreement.

“Well, I’d probably have made a cock-up of it, so I thought it was probably best to leave you to it,” Crowley replied smoothly.

“My dear-"

“No,” the demon warned. Aziraphale snapped his mouth shut guiltily. “Don’t go saying some nice thing, ‘cause you know I’m right. Do you want to, G- no, Sa- no, ugh, Somebody, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but do you want to talk about it?”

Aziraphale shook his head so hard that he got a little bit dizzy.

“It was just something stupid,” he said quickly. “Nothing for you to worry about, my dear.”

Crowley nodded, but he clearly wasn’t very convinced.

“Alright. Did you get the wine?”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to nod. His face seemed to light up as he reached down and pulled out a bottle from a bag by his feet: it clinked as it came out, so there must have been a few bottles in there.

“Chateau Margaux 1787,” he said. He sounded very proud. “I’ve had it in the attic ever since I got it. You know it’s worth nearly £178, 000 pounds today?”

Crowley chuckled, shaking his head.

“C’mon angel. If we don’t leave now, we won’t get there on time,” he told him.

“Where are we going?” Aziraphale asked, shutting his book and hauling himself up out of his chair and drying his eyes on the back of his hands. “Oh, I must look positively _ghastly_ -”

“Shut up angel, you look fine and you know it,” Crowley said. He sounded a little irritated, and the angel felt something that was suspiciously like self-loathing stir in his gut. “And you’ll find out, so don’t be nosy.”

“You know I’ll figure it out halfway there,” Aziraphale said matter-of-factly.

Crowley bristled, but only because he was too proud to admit that Aziraphale was right.

“Come on, ‘Zira.”

888888

Of _course_ there was traffic on the M25.

Normally, Crowley was extremely proud of the M25 Orbital Motorway. He considered it to be some of his best work, alongside elevator music and self-checkouts in supermarkets. Today, however, Crowley could not enjoy the low-grade evil grumbling its way around London because he had somewhere very important to be, Someone-dammit all to Somewhere!

He slammed his hands on the steering wheel, releasing a small growl from the back of his throat. Aziraphale jumped at the sound: he was still a little on edge.

“Please tell me where we’re going, Crowley,” he begged. It was the fifth time he’d asked in half an hour, and the demon glared at him.

“ _Sss_ top a _sss_ king, angel,” Crowley said.

“Your hiss is back, dear.”

“ _Ssss_ hut up!”

Aziraphale did so. He was used to doing as he was told. His obedience was impeccable, outstanding, in fact. It was pretty much the only reason that Gabriel* had tolerated Aziraphale as Earth Liaison all these years. Key word “had”. The angel suddenly found himself with a rather large lump in his throat. He looked quickly down at his knees, taking a shallow breath.

*Contrary to popular belief, The Almighty does not make staffing decisions. She is far too busy with all of Her ineffability to be troubled with such trivial matters. That being said, She does have a particularly soft spot for Aziraphale, and was so invested in his and Crowley’s relationship that she took almost any means necessary to make sure they both stayed on earth.  

“No, no, no, angel, c’mon,” Crowley said when he looked over. He reached across and tried to tilt Aziraphale’s head up: the angel dodged, sniffing deeply. “Today is supposed to be a happy day!”

Due to not having a defined purpose for the first time in his entire existence, Aziraphale was having some adjustment issues. Over the past two months, he would periodically find himself spiralling into fits of the darkest depression, rendering him unable to leave the bookshop for days at a time. Even when Crowley showed up to take him out, it was very rare for Aziraphale to be able to drag himself out of bed if he was in one of his moods. Strangely, it always seemed to happen when he thought about Heaven and Gabriel and all that malarkey.

“I’m fine, Crowley,” he said, his voice a little hoarse.

“Aziraphale, you have to stop lying to me and yourself,” Crowley said. The traffic inched forward another inch or so. In the distance, a nightingale sung. Aziraphale gulped. “This isn’t some stupid little thing that’s going to go away if you just ignore it.”

“And how do you know that?” the angel snapped, appalled at how rude he was being. Crowley gave him a pointed look before glancing back to the road.

“Would I lie to you, angel?” he said. It took a moment, but Aziraphale nodded. “Exactly. I just don’t want to come to your bookshop to find that you’ve done something stupid.”

Aziraphale froze in his seat.

“Crowley…” he breathed, but he didn’t have a chance to say anything else because the demon huffed heavily.

“Screw this,” he said, and clicked his fingers.

They and the Bentley were now on a small country road. They seemed to have bypassed all of the M25, and a lot of the dual carriageway as well. The road ahead was empty, and Crowley, of course, took the opportunity to speed up to 110 miles per hour.

“Come on then, angel,” he said. “Tell us about your books.”

The angel’s low mood seemed to immediately lift as he began to babble about a new shipment of books he had coming in next week. Crowley grinned softly.

_I got this boy on my mind that I can’t be without_

It was true. That moment when the demon had walked into the burning bookshop to find no Aziraphale in sight, he had truly thought that it was the end.

_Oh, his eyes are killing me_

Aziraphale’s eyes were such a beautiful blue, he thought as he watched them sparkle in the watered-down sunlight that was filtering through the thick glass of the windscreen. They were full of life now that he was babbling about books, but Crowley could see the tiniest hint of self-doubt in there, and it broke his heart.

_And he keeps talking about everything that he likes and I can’t stop listening_

Oh God, if he didn’t want to keep listening to Aziraphale until the end of time! The angel’s voice had such a musical quality to it that it enticed Crowley. He was sucked in, powerless to the other’s charm. Aziraphale could have been talking about anything and Crowley probably would have agreed out of sheer lovestruck-ness.

 _I’m thinking ‘bout him all the time  
_ _I’m thinking ‘bout him all the time  
_ _I’m thinking ‘bout him all the time_  
All the time

This was also true. Whether he was watering his plants, driving in the Bentley or just lying in his comfier-than-comfy bed in his apartment, Crowley always had Aziraphale on his mind. The angel’s beautiful bouncy curls, the way he got so animated when he got a good idea, Crowley was infatuated with it all. Which is why Aziraphale got away with talking about books and luxury food and the history between them for the entire four hour journey. On the plus side, he’d been so distracted that he hadn’t figured out where they were going.

The low grumble of the Bentley’s engine seemed to be amplified by the small rocky road that they were trundling down. It was steep, and Crowley wasn’t sure whether the vintage car’s brakes would hold up. Ah well, if they didn’t he could always get the angel to perform a miracle to keep the car there. He pulled up to the end of the lane, gingerly pulling the handbrake on and unclipping his seatbelt*. He turned to Aziraphale expectantly. The angel unclipped his own seatbelt and followed Crowley in getting out of the car.

*Yes, Crowley wears a seatbelt. He’s a demon, not an idiot.

“My dear,” Aziraphale began, but Crowley shushed him by taking his hand and leading him down onto the beach.

It was 7 p.m, and so it was still light. The shining sun was still high in the sky, beaming down on the whole expanse of golden sand and smooth rock faces. When they looked out over the horizon, another coast was clearly visible, the white houses standing out against the deep blue of the sea. A few fluffy white clouds were floating across the sky, but other than that it was a clear blue. Down at the coast’s edge, the water seemed almost clear, shimmering and sparkling in the sun’s gaze. In Crowley’s mind, it was like the sea had been designed and modelled after Aziraphale’s eyes.

Down in the cove, snuggled in a semicircle of a rock face, was a tartan blanket and a wicker basket.

 _And my heart’s beating faster when he’s looking like that  
_ _Oh, his smile is killin’ me_

Aziraphale turned to Crowley, his face the very picture of happy and shocked. He was grinning, biting his lower lip lightly. The demon very much felt as if his heart was about to burst out of his chest.

“I still owe you a picnic,” he said weakly. “I thought- oof!”

Crowley was cut off when he was barreled into by five-foot-ten-inches of angel. Said angel held him tightly, burying his face in the crook of his demon’s neck.

“Oh Crowley,” he said hoarsely. “It’s _perfect_.”

 _It’s the way that he moves and the way that he laughs  
_ _So I can’t get enough_

They walked down to the picnic blanket arm-in-arm. Crowley dramatically flourished and gestured for Aziraphale to sit, which made the angel giggle adorably. They popped open the wine, and then discovered that Crowley had forgotten* to bring the wine glasses, so they had to settle for drinking it out of the bottle, which Aziraphale was secretly pleased with.

*He hadn’t. This had all been meticulously planned, and Crowley liked seeing Aziraphale try to drink out of a bottle when he was already drunk.

 _I’m thinking ‘bout him all the time  
_ _I can’t get him off my mind_  
Oh, I want him to be mine

Crowley’s heart ached every time he looked at Aziraphale. It had done ever since that day in Eden when the angel had put his wing over his head to shield the demon from the first storm. It had done when he had found him before the flood, it had done when they’d found each other in Wessex, it had done when he’d saved Aziraphale from discorporation and the perils of paperwork in 1793, it had especially ached when he’d walked in on Aziraphale, ahem, _making an effort_ with Oscar Wilde, and it was aching now.

It always was, and always will be, Aziraphale.

_To be mine._

It’s always nice to dream, isn’t it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reference to 'making an effort' comes from the book (in case you haven't had chance to read it): "angels are sexless [meaning asexual] unless they really want to make an effort". That actually turned out real angsty, damn. The beach is also based off an actual beach in Cornwall that I went to a couple of years ago. Anyways, sorry this took like a week, I hope this chapter is worth it and I look forward to hearing your feedback xx


	3. I Have My Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anathema and Co. implement their plan, and Crowley and Aziraphale discover their feelings.  
> POSSIBLE TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR ASSAULT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so I'm sorry this is so late!!!! It was supposed to be up a few days ago, but it's ended up being roughly 6,500 words long and I had work experience last week so swamped! This is the last chapter of this fic, but if you enjoyed it, I do have another two or three lined up!! Anyway, hope you enjoy this

**_Soho, London: 2 months and 4 days since the start of the rest of their lives_ **

Wednesday was always the quietest day for shoppers in Aziraphale’s bookshop. He hadn’t the foggiest idea why, but it was rare to get more than two or three book hunters on a typical Wednesday. Because of this fact, the angel would usually shut the shop early, make himself a nice hot cup of cocoa and curl up with a good book until Crowley arrived to collect him for dinner.

This is why he was so surprised when, at half past five in the evening as he sat behind the counter engrossed in _Oliver Twist_ , a large group of people entered his shop.

All of the individuals in the group were wearing full-black outfits, with black knitted ski masks obscuring their faces. One of them stalked over to the books stacked up on the windowsill, running their finger across the tops of them before pulling the shutters down on the windows one by one. Another pulled the locks on the shop doors shut whilst Aziraphale got up hurriedly and came to stand in the shop. The other three were circling the bookshop owner, who was trembling as he stood in the middle of the shop floor.

“Oh, erm, how can I, um, help you?” Aziraphale stammered, trying to put on his most charming smile. It came out more terrified. “Is there, er, something in particular you’re looking for?”

"Are you the one named Aziraphale?" the one by the door asked. They sounded raspy, and it clearly wasn't their natural voice. "The Guard of the Eastern Gate?"

Aziraphale very much wanted to retort _what's it to you_ *, but his polite nature prevented him from doing so. Instead, he just smiled a little and nodded nervously. These people were making him anxious.

*An attitude he'd most definitely picked up entirely from Crowley.

It turned out that anxious was the right thing to be, as all the group launched forward and began to attack the angel.

Now ordinarily, average human attacks would not do much to Aziraphale's corporeal body, as there were certain Heavenly defences against it. However, since the whole Hellfire incident, Gabriel had felt that he needed some control back, and so he had fiddled with the settings for Aziraphale's human form. Damage was now almost tripled, and Aziraphale would feel any punch that was thrown at him.

The angel's damage control was now that of a human's.

The first punch, a left hook that caught him right on the cheekbone, sent stars dancing in front of Aziraphale's eyes. He staggered, reaching behind him to clutch at the counter. He stared at the people, shocked.

"Now really, there's no need-"

Another punch silenced him, cracking the angel's head back. Aziraphale tasted blood, but he barely had time to figure out where it was coming from before a knee was jammed into the stomach and he doubled over, groaning terribly. The tallest figure swiftly kicked the bookshop owner's feet from under him, sending him to the floor.

If all of the angel's cards had been played right, he would have hit his head on the sharp corner of the desk as he went down and been out like a light, dead to the world for the rest of the assault. But no. He landed on the polished hardwood floor with a _thump_ , and Aziraphale immediately knew that he was going to have a huge bruise all up the side of his body. _Oh, hopefully it will be purple,_ he thought. _I do like purple._

The punches were coming thick and fast now, and Aziraphale found himself unconsciously curling into a ball, trying to protect his head with his forearms. Unfortunately, a particularly hard punch caught his wrist just the wrong way and the angel heard a distinctive crack. He gasped as a white hot pain radiated right from his fingertips all the way up to his elbow. One of the thugs swore lowly before kicking the angel hard in the ribs. Aziraphale whimpered a little.

Aziraphale had never been beaten up before. Everyone who met him found themselves inexplicably liking him, despite his outdated fashion sense and his seemingly total obliviousness to the real world. In fact, that was often what charmed them about him. In their minds, Aziraphale was just a big precocious child.

Unluckily for him, this meant the angel had not the faintest idea how to defend himself in a fight. True, he’d had combat training up in Heaven, but he’d paid little attention and had only just scraped through the class. There was a lovely phrase he’d heard in the early 1900s, what was it? Conscientious objector, that’s it. Aziraphale considered himself to be a conscientious objector to war. He hated all forms of violence. He just couldn’t understand it, unless it gave way to a moral argument, of course. As he lay there, being punched and kicked and even spat on at one point, he couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for himself. He was hyper-aware of every bruise being inflicted on his pale skin.

At the last minute, when the angel was on the brink of unconsciousness, the figures stood above him in a circle, blocking out any of the light. Aziraphale squinted up at them, barely able to see due to the fact that one eye was swollen shut and his vision was already a little hazy. One of them seemed to be smiling mockingly at him from behind the ski mask.

“Tell Crowley we said hi,” the smiling one sneered before reaching up and punching the angel hard in the face.

Aziraphale caught the last snatches of a faintly recognisable voice before his vision blacked out and he was out like a light.

888888

Behind the door, Madame Tracy hit Shadwell with her fake Louis Vuitton* handbag.

*She had acquired it in Magaluf on a "ladies weekend" in 1977, and it had magically stayed together with the assistance of Home Bargains sticky tape ever since.

“Now look what you’ve done!” she hissed, gesturing to the unconscious angel on the floor. “He _heard_ you, I saw it.”

“It’s fine,” Anathema whispered. “He probably won’t remember it.”

Newt was looking distinctly uneasy as he stood, poised to run at any moment by the fire escape. The masked gang made their way over to the small group, and the tallest, the one who had been smiling, pulled his mask off and held out his hand. He had a chiselled jawline and soft brown hair, which fell in waves over his forehead. His eyes were a surprisingly soft brown.

“Payment please, miss,” he said politely to Anathema. The witch pulled a wad of fifty pound notes from her pocket and handed them to him. “Pray tell, miss,” he added as he pocketed the money. “Why exactly did you want this doing? It’s just you don’t seem like the type to have many enemies, a pretty girl like you, miss.”

In the corner, Newt glared a figurative hole in the flaking plasterboard.

“I have a scheme,” she replied happily. “We’re trying to get him and a friend to realise their feelings for each other.”

The man nodded understandingly. In his job as a professional assaulter and all-round threatener, that was definitely one of the nicest reasons he’d ever heard.

“Nice working for you, miss,” he said before pulling his ski mask on and shepherding the others out of the door.

Anathema turned to Newt and grinned.

888888

Crowley knew that something was wrong the moment he walked into the bookshop.

Normally, the place felt _spooky_. Not a bad spooky, though. A nice spooky. The type of spooky that was never, ever felt in hell. Typical, he supposed, given that Aziraphale was a being basically made of love. But when he put his hand on the doorknob, nay, just stepped into the threshold of the place, it was as if somebody had taken all of the love from it and blasted it to smithereens. When he tried the door, it was locked. Aziraphale never locked the door. The demon froze, leaning in and putting his ear to the door. Nothing.

“Aziraphale?” he called out.

Unusually, there was no reply.

Crowley raised his fist and hammered on the door. He thought he'd heard a quiet groan but dismissed it, thinking that his mind was playing tricks on him. Taking a few steps backwards, he ran towards the door and threw his shoulder against it with all of his might. The old lock splintered easily and the door swung open.

The bookshop was, in the lightest terms, in tatters. Antique leather bound books were strewn across the floor and there were papers everywhere. Crowley was sure he saw an autographed cover part from a certain Mr O. Wilde: he smirked and bid it a good riddance by smiling it out of existence*. The gramophone was smashed, the record it had been playing broken up and stuffed inside the big stupid brass horn thingy.

*He did, of course, later replace it after Aziraphale's lamenting became too much for him to take.

Aziraphale himself was sprawled, unconscious, on the bookshop floor next to a puddle of blood.

Crowley's heart rose into his throat, blocking his ability to breathe. Here was Aziraphale, _his_ 'Zira, spread eagle-armed on the floor as a _taunt._ We know where you are, Crowley. We know _what_ you are. We know who matters to you.

"No…" he croaked out, edging forward.

And then Aziraphale groaned and Crowley felt as if his heart had been lifted from his body.

"Az'?" he murmured. His eyes felt suspiciously wet beneath his trademark sunglasses. The angel mumbled something that sounded a bit like his name and Crowley rushed forward, dropping to his knees next to his best friend. "C'mon, Az', help me out here? You know I'm rubbish at all of this first aid stuff*."

*This is true. Crowley does not even know the symptoms of a common cold.

"Crowle-e-e-ey," Aziraphale whispered pitifully. It was the most pathetic Crowley had ever heard him, and he'd been there for the Great Sob of 1889 after Oscar Wilde had broken things off.

"That's it, come on," Crowley encouraged in the gentlest way possible. "Open your eyes for me, dear."

He winced, the words feeling unfamiliar in his mouth. Aziraphale's eyelids began to flutter slightly."

The blood on the floor appeared to have come from the angel's nose, which was most definitely broken. Blood was starting to crust at both nostrils, and it had left a glistening trail all down Aziraphale's chin and onto his usually pristine shirt. If the bookshop owner had been even a little bit lucid, he would have been devastated at the state of his beautiful nineteenth century coat. It was covered in huge boot prints and flecks of blood, and a large cigarette burn had been inflicted on the back of the jacket.

Apart from the broken nose, most of Aziraphale's other injuries seemed to be superficial, cuts and bruises and the like. On the more severe side was what felt like a possible cracked rib on the angel's left side and a potential fracture to the right wrist, which was all swollen and hanging in a rather odd way.

"Hey, there are those beautiful eyes," Crowley whispered as Aziraphale's eyes opened. They seemed to take a moment to focus, but then he recognised the demon and immediately shot upright.

He groaned almost immediately, and he would have fallen straight back down if it wasn't for Crowley's steadying hand on his back. He grasped at Crowley's arms, looking at him desperately.

"You're in danger!" he said urgently. "Crowley, run, hide, you're in danger, you're in danger, you're in danger…"

"Aziraphale, calm down," Crowley said as slowly and as clearly as he could. Aziraphale shook his head frantically, continuing to repeat himself over and over again. "Az', Az', I'm fine, look, I'm here with you, you're not on your own, those nasty buggers who did this to you are gone, I promise."

“But that’s exactly _it,_ Crowley!” Aziraphale yelled. He was very pale because of his injuries, but if he hadn’t been, he would have been bright red in the face with desperation and annoyance. “Why can’t you see it!?”

“Because you’re not making any _sense,_ angel!” Crowley shouted back as he fought the urge to beat his head against the wall.

“They’re coming for you!”

Crowley frowned. As much as he wanted to believe the angel, he did seem a bit out of it. The demon watched as the other winced, putting his uninjured hand to his ribs. Aziraphale was holding his broken wrist awkwardly by his side.

“Did they say something to you?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale nodded.

“Right at the end,” he said. “Before they… you know.” He mimed a punch to the side of the head. “They said _‘tell Crowley we said hi’_.”

Well damn. If Crowley hadn’t been one hundred percent certain before, he was definitely sure now. This was Hell’s work. Had to be. Who else would want to attack Aziraphale, loving Aziraphale who had never hurt so much as a fly? However, before Crowley could dwell too much on this question, Aziraphale groaned, grabbing his attention.

“Oh, Crowley, I don’t feel too well,” the angel said. He was holding his head and looking a little green. Crowley made a face, fearing the worst. “I’m just so tired…”

“You can’t sleep!” Crowley blurted. He remembered overhearing it years ago and it had inexplicably stuck. Aziraphale winced at the volume of the demon’s voice and turned a little greener. “You might have a, er, concussion, and it could be dangerous to sleep.”

“Right,” Aziraphale mumbled. “You wouldn’t happen to have a bucket or anything, would you?”

“A bucket?” Crowley repeated, bewildered. “Why on earth would I have- oh.”

Crowley had stopped because Aziraphale had turned his head to the side and was vomiting onto a first edition of _Paradise Lost_. The demon winced, leaning forward and gingerly rubbing circles into Aziraphale’s back. The angel was making very strange noises. As soon as he’d finished and had sat back, getting as close to Crowley as he could, the demon miracled away the mess and made a cup of sweet tea (Aziraphale’s second-favourite drink after cocoa) appear in his hand. He held it to the angel’s lips, but Aziraphale made a face and turned his head away.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said quietly. Crowley rolled his eyes and screwed his face up. A moment later, Aziraphale seemed to relax and the greenish tinge that his skin had taken on was gone.

“There, that should do you for a few hours at least,” the demon said. “Now drink up.”

And so Aziraphale did, taking the mug in his uninjured hand and drinking it down as Crowley went around the bookshop miracling everything back into place.

“You know,” he said, quite innocently, mind you, between sips. “I thought I recognised one of the voices.”

In an instant Crowley was by his side again, kneeling directly in front of him.

“Who?” he asked urgently. Aziraphale erred, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “‘Zira, this is important.”

“Well, I thought I heard one of the Tadfield lot,” the angel admitted. He sounded a bit guilty, as if he was selling someone out to the Mafia. “Sergeant Shadwell, to be precise.”

Crowley’s face twisted into an unreadable expression that, quite frankly, scared Aziraphale a bit. After a moment, he got up and held out his hand to the angel, who took it and managed to lever himself up off of the floor.

“What are we doing?” he asked.

“Going to Tadfield. I’ve got a few questions to ask.”

Aziraphale gulped, and it had nothing to do with the tea.

888888

“Crowley?”

“What do you want now, angel?”

“Can you slow down a tad? You’re going to kill someone!”

Crowley had first learned to drive in 1892, when Fredrick Bremer completed his first car. He enjoyed it immensely, especially as cars had become faster and more powerful. If the furtive whispers and rumours from the back rooms of the London pubs and clubs were correct, then the infamous James Bond car chases were based off of Crowley’s driving. In fact, Crowley had been the first person to ever be caught speeding in Britain, going a ludicrous eight miles per hour in a two zone whilst in East Peckham for a quick temptation.*

*He had, of course, given a fake name at the scene when he had finally been caught, which is why all the history books are convinced that it was in fact Walter Arnold who had been driving the car that day.

Aziraphale, however, had never learned to drive, but he knew that Crowley’s driving was _not_ safe in any way shape or form. Currently, he was stretched across the back seat, ice packs pressed on his black eye and his ribs, and folded around his swollen wrist. He kept glancing worriedly around the car and the surrounding area, as if he were afraid of something.

“At this speed,” Crowley said, jabbing his finger at the speedometer which was flicking between 100 and 110, “we’ll be in Tadfield in just over half an hour. See, we’re already nearly there.”

This was true. They had left the bookshop nearly twenty-five minutes ago, and the M25 had been magically clear.

“Okay,” Aziraphale said, but he did not sound very convinced.

“You alright back there?” the demon asked, twisting round to look at the bookshop owner. The angel had gone very pale again. “You don’t look too good.”

“My head is awfully sore,” Aziraphale replied.

“Well, Anathema will know what to do,” Crowley said. “I’m all miracle-d out, I’m afraid.”

“Well, you did put my entire bookshop back together and scared off my stomach-ache, so I’m not surprised, my dear.”

Crowley grinned. Aziraphale loved Crowley’s smile. And his eyes. They were exquisite, he always thought, and he wished the demon would have them out more often. He remembered when Crowley had pinned him to the wall at the old convent, how he’d felt Crowley’s hot breath on his cheek, how their noses had been almost touching, how he’d caught flashes of gold behind the thick dark shades.

 _Bugger it,_ Aziraphale thought. _Climb every mountain._

Whilst Crowley was still within his reach, he grasped the back of the demon’s collar and, sitting up a little, pulled him into a kiss.

Neither the angel nor the demon were very experienced in the art of kissing. Agnes Nutter knew as much. One of the burned prophecies had proclaimed:

_The angel shall arriveth at thy doth’rstep_

_His headeth s’re and his wrist bended_

_And so shall the demon_

_His lips r’d and his cheeks flush’d_

_As their lips connecteth_

Less obtuse that most of Agnes’ prophecies by a long shot. A lot of the newer prophecies were less obscure, but of course, Anathema had burned them before she had a chance to read them.

Anyhow: back to the matter at hand.

Strangely enough, Crowley actually had less experience that Aziraphale in this field. You would have thought, Crowley being a demon and all, that he would have had much more expertise, but Crowley had never been able to bring himself to actually practise the act with anyone because of his infatuation with a certain angel. Said angel was usually, as previously stated, completely uninterested in sex as a whole, but Oscar Wilde had been his first exception.

Crowley, of course, had been his second and final exception.

If you asked the two to pinpoint when abouts they fell for each other, Crowley would probably tell you the Garden of Eden, when he found out that the angel had given his flaming sword away and risked awful repercussions just because he cared too much. One day, he would say, probably whilst looking at Aziraphale as if he is the most perfect thing on the planet*, he had hoped that Aziraphale would care that much about him.

*Which, arguably, he is: he is still an angel, after all.

Aziraphale would reply that, for him, it was more of a slow-burn situation. The first inklings of any feelings, he would say, would probably have been in 1601, when Crowley made _Hamlet_ , and to a larger extent Shakespeare himself, a smash hit. And then it would have to be 1793 when Crowley saved him from inconvenient discorporation. Oh, but it had all come to a head in 1941 with the church and the Nazis.

Crowley had saved the books, he'd say with a fond twinkle in his eye as he reaches for Crowley's hand. That's when he fell head-over-heels in love.

It's not like the kiss was bad. It was immediately blessed by God*, so it couldn't exactly be _bad_ , but it wasn't like it was mind-blowingly incredible either. It was… in the middle. Just perfect. Human.

*Who was cheering. Loudly. There was metaphysical popcorn everywhere.

It was… them.

They broke apart when Crowley realised that a lorry was barrelling towards them. He lunged forward, twisting the steering wheel so they veered out of its path. Aziraphale was panting. Crowley was grinning.

"So, angel…?" the demon said. He waggled his eyebrows and Aziraphale laughed.

"Be _quiet_ , Crowley."

"Hey, I've been wanting this for over six thousand years," Crowley shot back. "I'm going to- mph!"

The rest of his sentence was muffled because Aziraphale pulled him into another, deeper kiss. Crowley responded with equal passion, six millennia of passion, in fact. Once they broke apart, this time to take the exit onto the main road to Tadfield, Aziraphale adjusted his ice packs, looking down and then back up at the demon.

"Did you say… six thousand years?" he asked shyly. Crowley nodded, glancing backwards.

"Roughly, anyway," he replied. "Pretty sure I fell in love with you right up on that wall surrounding Eden."

Demons are taught from a very young age to show any and all emotions to their full extent. They are told that they are to be proud of their emotions, however ugly* they may be, and that it was shameful not to wear them on their sleeve. Crowley had been a young, impressionable demon when this lesson had been taught, and had immediately thought it an excellent idea. It's not like he'd ever _hidden_ how he'd felt about Aziraphale! He'd just been… cryptic, that's all. It wasn’t his fault the angel was so oblivious!

*Obviously, they were told the uglier the better. This is Hell, after all.

Angels are not taught this lesson. Pride is obviously a sin, so they are told to be humble and obedient. Emotions must not come into the mix if they interfered with The Divine Plan. Putting The Divine Plan into purpose was, they were told, ultimately the reason they existed. Anything that prevented them from completing this task was detrimental to their very existence. Unfortunately, this included emotions, and so Aziraphale was very uncomfortable with having his own thoughts and feelings.

Which meant that when Crowley told him that he loved him, he froze up.

This wasn't like a quick _"oh I'm a little flustered, I'm not sure what to do"_ sort of thing. It was a full on _"oh my good Lord, I'm freaking out, I'm freaking out, everything that I thought I knew has flown out of the fucking window, how do I get out this goddamn car!?"_ sort of freeze-up. His breathing became very shallow and fast as he stared out of the window, pointedly avoiding Crowley’s gaze. His ears seemed to be ringing. When the demon called out his name, he sounded very far away. It felt as if his heart was trying to break its way out of his chest, which was feeling very restricted. He was trembling.

“If I ever meet Gabriel, I’m gonna kill him for conditioning you like this,” Crowley mumbled before he pulled the car to a sharp stop at the side of the road. Conveniently, they had just pulled up at Anathema’s. Crowley undid his seatbelt and clambered into the back seat, gently pulling Aziraphale into his lap. He let the angel burrow into his shoulder as he messed with angel’s fluffy white curls. “Sorry for scaring you, ‘Zira. I forgot about Heaven’s bastard rules. But you don’t have to abide by their stupid rules anymore, do you?” He felt Aziraphale shake his head against his shoulder. “No. Emotions are a _good_ thing, Az’. Not something to be hidden away and ashamed of.”

As Crowley said this, a soft glow seemed to fill the Bentley. It felt comforting and it felt as if it was enveloping the entire car. Crowley stiffened, and Aziraphale gasped. They both recognised this Light.

 _My children,_ it said tenderly. The angel took a shaky breath before coming out of Crowley's shoulder and trying to smile.

"Ah, um, hello, Almighty," he stammered.

Crowley was shaking. The last time he'd even seen the Light of the Almighty One was just over six thousand years ago, when he was cast out. Since then, he'd become fairly successful at avoiding any contact with Her at all. He could barely look into the Holy Light without his eyes burning.       

 _My child Aziraphale,_ the voice from the light said. _Come closer to me._

Aziraphale did, inching closer to the focal point of the Light. He kept one hand on Crowley's the whole time.

 _Aziraphale,_ She said. _My beautiful Principality, My devoted Guard of the Eastern Gate._

"Y-yes, m'Lord?" Aziraphale whispered. His voice was very timid.

_Why do you feel this way when you know I created you to be perfect, My child?_

"Like wh-what, Lord?" Aziraphale asked. Crowley knew he was trying to play dumb. Dumb didn't suit Aziraphale very well.

_Like how you think you are anything less than perfect, Aziraphale._

"Oh, erm, do I? Hadn't really, um, noticed, if I'm honest."

_Stupidity does not suit you, My child._

Aziraphale didn't know what to say. His mouth opened and closed, making him look like a goldfish out of water, which he was, metaphorically. Crowley watched him worriedly. It wasn't often that he saw Aziraphale lost for words.

 _Aziraphale,_ the Almighty said. Her words were gentle, and the bookshop owner couldn't help but to inch forward a little more. _You were created with a Purpose, as are all angels._

What is Gabriel's purpose, Crowley wondered, to be a wanker?

_Some angels were made to Fall. Others were made to thrive. You, My gorgeous child, were made to Love._

Somehow, Aziraphale had managed to regain control of his vocal chords. As he gazed into the Light, he said,

"To Love what, Lord?"

 _Everything,_ the Light replied. _You were created to Love the Heaven and the Earth, to Love the Garden and humanity, to find Love in even the worst situations._ She paused, and Crowley felt as if a spotlight had been put on him. _To Love the one that everyone considered to be unlovable._

It was Crowley who piped up next.

"You say that he's supposed to Love _everything,"_ he said eyeing the Light suspiciously. "Then why does he- oh, I don't know, however you bloody put it."

There was silence for a few moments.

 _Yes, well, I suppose that's a small hiccup on My part,_ the Almighty said, sounding almost casual.

"A _small hiccup_ ?" Crowley repeated. "Are You telling us that You made a _mistake_?"

 _Well it happens to the best of us!_ She said defensively.

"You're God, You don't make mistakes!"

_Trust Me, the platypus was a mistake. Too much wine, if I do say so Myself._

Crowley shook his head. This is not happening, he thought incredulously, I am not talking to God about the Creation of platypli.

"What has this got to do with Aziraphale?" he asked tiredly. Said angel nodded in the relieved manner of one who has had their question asked finally, despite the fact they deemed it too rude to ask about ten minutes ago.

 _Right, yes,_ the Almighty said. _Because of his extreme love, Aziraphale wants to please at all times. This is simply not possible, but it eats away at him and manifests in odd ways._

The Almighty spoke Aziraphale’s name, and he felt as if his hands had just been taken by a pair of soft and comfortingly wrinkled ones.

 _You must not be anxious, My child. Everyone you meet is pleased to meet you, and they feel privileged to know you._ There was a pause. _I feel privileged to have Created you. I have watched you flourish, and I have watched you make this world a better place._ Aziraphale had been looking at the floor, but he felt his chin being tilted up by an invisible force. His grip of Crowley tightened. _I am proud of you, Aziraphale. I am proud of the angel you’ve become._

Tears were streaming down the angel’s face. He couldn’t help it: never in all his time in Heaven nor on Earth had he felt so loved and valued. Sniffing heavily, he managed to raise his eyes and looking into the Light once more.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

 _Crowley,_ the Almighty said. Crowley edged apprehensively forwards until he was as good as sitting in Aziraphale’s lap. _My perfect curious child. How I wish that you had not had to Fall._

“What do you mean _‘have to Fall’_?” Crowley blurted, a little aggravated.

 _Sometimes, the true ineffability of My plan is not seen until afterwards. This was one of those times,_ the Light answered.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

_If you had not Fallen, would you have met Aziraphale?_

Crowley was stumped. He did not like being stumped. Instead of letting the confusion show on him face, he settled for argument.

“I might have done,” he said. “We might have run into each other.”

 _I highly doubt it,_ the Almighty said. You could virtually see the eyebrow arch. _Would you have wanted to have an existence without Aziraphale?_

The demon shook his head dumbly. No, he wouldn’t. Life would be too boring. True, Aziraphale was basically your standard fond Grandpa, but he was still fun. Especially when they got drunk together.

Aziraphale was giving him that star-struck love look again. Crowley grinned at him before staring back into the Light.

“Still, Falling?” he said. “That’s pretty extreme.”

The Almighty made a noise that was the verbal equivalent of a shrug.

 _It was The Plan,_ She said. _If I explain The Plan, it will no longer be ineffable, and The Plan must be ineffable. But Crowley, I did not want you to Fall. When you left Heaven, it was a… great loss for Me._

“I don’t believe you,” Crowley shot back.

The Light chuckled.

 _I did not expect you to,_ She said. _But Crowley. It was, believe Me._

“B-but why did you cast me out?” Crowley asked. His voice seemed to have lost all of its conviction, and he sounded almost broken. The Almighty was silent. “Please, Muma*!”

*The author would like to note that they got this idea from a different fic which they cannot, for the _life_ of them, remember the name of. They kinda fell in love with it but want to credit so seriously, if you know, they beg you to comment with the name.

 _You always called me that,_ the Almighty said. Her voice was a little sad. _I cast you out because I had to, to give you a better life. Heaven was too restrictive and Hell was too… Hellish. Earth is where you belong. I love you, Crowley. I only want what is best for you._

The Light slowly faded away, leaving the two alone in the car. They were both crying their eyes out, clutching at each other. The tears were struggling to make it out of Aziraphale’s puffed-up eye, and when Crowley looked at him through streaming eyes, he was reminded about why they were here.

“Angel,” he said. “Angel. Come on. We’re here to get you fixed up, not sob in the car.”

Aziraphale let out a small laugh, wiping his eyes on the back of his good hand. Crowley managed to stop his own tears before helping Aziraphale out of the car and up to Anathema’s front door. The angel winced as he took a deep breath that jarred his injured rib. Crowley raised his fist and knocked hard before reaching down and taking Aziraphale’s hand.

The minute Anathema opened the door, she gasped at the state of the angel in front of her.

“Oh, my God, what happened!?” she squawked, her hand over her mouth in shock*.

*Obviously she wasn’t. Anathema is a very good actress.  

“That’s what I’m hoping you can tell me,” Crowley said icily. Anathema gulped, but managed to maintain her composure. At least, she did until she saw their joined hands.

“You’re holding hands,” she said. “Are you- oh my life, are you two…?”

Aziraphale smiled, reaching over and kissing Crowley briefly on the lips. Anathema completely lost her cool and squealed, grinning widely.

“Not- not the point,” Crowley interrupted. “Can you fix him?”

Anathema made a small noise and ushered them inside.

“Newt?” she called out as the angel slumped onto the sofa. “Get that first aid pack from the bathroom!”

Aziraphale groaned softly, covering his face with his hand as Crowley sat down next to him. Crowley’s miracle was starting to wear off, and so his head was starting to pound again. Combined with the wrist, the ribs and the bruises, it was almost too much for the angel to bear.

“You okay?” Crowley asked softly.

“Fine,” Aziraphale replied, his voice quiet.

It was quiet until Anathema came back, Newt in her trail. She was armed with bandages, plasters, antiseptic wipes, anything that could have possibly been required by an army medic, really. Newt was holding an oversized festival* t-shirt. She sat down on Aziraphale’s other side, putting one hand on the angel’s chin and turning his head from side to side, checking the bruises.

*It should be noted that this is _not_ a music festival t-shirt. It’s for a comic festival. But not a cool comic festival. Newt only has the t-shirt because it was on offer for £2.99 and he can’t resist a bargain.

“Do you… remember much of it?” she asked as she ripped open an antiseptic wipe and began dabbing at the blood on Aziraphale’s nose. The angel hissed in pain. “Sorry, sorry, I know it stings.”

“I remember some of it, yes,” he replied, squeezing Crowley’s hand. Crowley gave him a small smile, squeezing back. “It was, um, rather violent, if I do say so myself.”

“Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry,” Anathema said, giving him a sympathetic look. All the blood was gone from his nose now, and Anathema started on the small cuts that were littered over Aziraphale’s face and torso. The bookshop owner took another deep breath and his hand immediately flew to his ribs, which jarred the swollen wrist. Anathema was immediately concerned. “Take your shirt off.”

Both Crowley and Aziraphale looked up at her when she said that. Crowley looked both scandalised and like he was mentally planning her unfortunate demise, and Aziraphale looked stricken and embarrassed.

“Oh, erm, my dear…” Aziraphale stammered, his cheeks flaming. “I-I…”

“I need to check for broken ribs,” she snapped, and the angel flinched a little, his hands flying up to unbutton his shirt.

“Well this is moving fast, eh, angel?” Crowley joked. Aziraphale managed to muster up enough strength for a glare as he quietly slipped his shirt off, cheeks flaming. He wasn’t meeting the eyes of anyone in the room.

Aziraphale’s earlier assumptions had been correct: there was a huge purple bruise all along his side, along with various boot-shaped bruises that were various shades of blue, black and green. Anathema put her hand to her mouth, turning to Newt: neither of them had expected this.

Gently, she began to palpate the skin along Aziraphale’s ribs. Every time she hit a bruise, he would whimper just a little more and she would whisper an apology as he squeezed Crowley’s hand a bit tighter.

“Nothing feels broken,” she said skeptically. She took the angel’s injured wrist in her hands, tenderly unwrapping the ice pack from around it. Aziraphale made a small, strangled noise. “This, on the other hand, might be.”

“It’s fine,” Aziraphale said through gritted teeth. “Once I’ve recovered a little I’ll miracle it.”

“Aziraphale, that’ll basically knock you out,” Crowley said, concerned. “You know it will. The amount of power-”

“You’re not doing it for me,” the angel cut in. “Newt, my dear boy, would you mind passing me that shirt?”

Newt nodded, looking a little spooked, passing it to him. With difficulty and only one functioning arm, he managed to get it on. He seemed to visibly relax once it was, though.

“Do painkillers work on… ethereal beings?” Anathema asked, mostly addressing Crowley. It didn’t matter, because now he wasn’t being poked and prodded, Aziraphale was half asleep on the demon’s shoulder.

“He’ll be alright,” Crowley replied, putting one arm around his angel’s shoulders. “He will be, anyway.”

Abruptly he stood up, whipping his glasses off. His golden eyes were flashing with hellfire. Anathema and Newt immediately stumbled back until they hit the wall, reaching out to one another.

“Yeah, I’m a demon,” Crowley growled, his voice low so as not to wake the sleeping angel. “I can _ss_ en _sss_ e when people are lying. _Ssss_ o come on: what’ _ss_ your excu _ssss_ e?”

He glared first at Newt and then at Anathema. They were both trembling, although Newt looked like he was about to wet himself from pure fear.

“It was Shadwell’s idea!” he blurted out. Crowley, who had been pacing up and down menacingly in front of them, stopped before coming forward and pinning Newt to the wall. Newt gulped, nodding. “He-he wanted to discorporate him! This-this was a-a-a compromise!”

“A _compromissse_ ?” the demon hissed. It sounded as if the entire wrath of Heaven and Hell was behind him from the lowness in his voice. “You’re playing game _sss_ with my angel’ _ss_ life!”

“We just wanted to get you together!” Anathema shouted.

“I don’t care!” Crowley roared. The sound echoed around the room, and the drooping spider plant in the corner began to shake violently, as did Newt. “You can do what you want to me, but you do not, and I repeat _do not_ , touch my angel. He never did anything to hurt anyone, and if I hear of you even thinking of giving him so much as a papercut, there will be repercussions. I _sss_ that clear?”

The other two nodded quickly. Crowley nodded shortly before dropping Newt back to the floor, brushing his suit off and going over to Aziraphale.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said. “I have my angel to tend to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! I really hope you enjoyed, and thanks for choosing to read this. Well done if you got this far lol! As ever, please don't forget to leave comments and kudos.  
> Peace out, sheeple xx
> 
> EDIT: the fic is https://archiveofourown.org/works/19103938/chapters/45391867   
> Read it it's soooooooo good


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